


Bite

by peachyzain



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blood, Gore, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Past Mentions of Abuse, ill put specific warnings in chapter notes so if anything is triggering to you youll absolutely know, larry stylinson - Freeform, zouis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:03:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyzain/pseuds/peachyzain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis' messes have become a lot more dangerous, a lot bloodier, and a lot harder for Harry to clean up after. Now Louis is on the warpath, targeting all of Harry's ghosts, and Harry has to stop him before the demons of his past convince him to join in the bloodbath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> okay soooooo im posting the prologue already, because im just really excited for everything! im hoping to have everything halfway done by the end of the month, so chapter one will not be posted until the last weekend of february most likely. i honestly dont even know where this fic came from, it just kinda spiraled out of the lyrics of bite by troye sivan so here we go lmao
> 
> follow me on tumblr @ peachyzain
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: lots of blood here!!

Harry races up the stairs of their building, taking the steps two at a time and nearly trampling a small red-headed boy driving a plastic blue car up the railing. He shouts a quick apology over his shoulder before taking on the next level of stairs. By the time he reaches the peeling black door of his flat his heart is hammering in his chest and a grin is pressing into his lips.

He’s just gotten off work and there’s still a smudge of pink frosting on his knuckle when he slides his key into the lock. It’s their first year anniversary today. He was too excited to get home to bother with washing his hands before he left.

He opens the door and steps inside, toes his boots off next to the battered Adidas trainers and drops his rucksack off on the coffee table. Harry shuts the door quietly behind him and glances around their flat.

It’s remarkably neat.

Something is…off. That’s the word for it.

Harry frowns, ignores the uneasy feeling settling in his stomach, making a home in his bones, and pads across the eerily quiet flat. There’s a copper smell clinging to the air, so heavy it fills Harry’s mouth and makes his head swim. Bitter.

The bathroom door is cracked and he can hear labored breathing and high pitched panicked cursing. Harry places a trembling hand on the door and pushes it open.

Red floods Harry’s senses, sending his system into shock, his body into overdrive. A hand-print is on the white tile floor, smeared in a long fading stripe in some kind of panicked frenzy. Crimson lines the claw-foot tub, drips thickly from the hand dangling limply from its edge. Deep red soaks the bed sheet lying over it. Scarlet sprays the back wall in an erratic line, spattering the mirror and Harry’s towel folded neatly over the rack.

The room smells like sickness and blood.

Bile threatens to rise up Harry’s throat, burning like acid, but he pushes it back down, covers his mouth with the collar of his shirt.

“Louis,” he breathes, moving to squat by the thin boy. He’s sitting by the toilet, trembling and breathing heavily through his nose. He smells like vomit and jumps when Harry places a hand on his narrow shoulder. “Louis, what did you do?”

Thick lines of blood cross the hollows of Louis’ eyes when he looks up at Harry. It’s like he tried to claw them out. He doesn’t say anything, just looks back at the body lying heavily in their bathtub, starts rapid-fire swearing under his breath again.

Harry swallows, takes a few deep and shaky breaths, and pulls back the bed sheet, sticky with blood drying on it. He has to know who it is. He has to know what Louis has done.

The first thing Harry notices is the sheer amount of blood. There’s so much he feels as if he’s drowning in it. The urge to throw up the contents of his stomach is there, buzzing dimly somewhere in the back of his head, but it doesn’t come. The ugly slash on his throat, the dozens of stab wounds in his chest, pressing the fabric of his button up shirt into his flesh, are nothing compared to the face Harry is met with.

He recognizes it instantly. Even with his eyelids slid closed by bloodied fingertips. Even with the way his left temple crumbles, a sickly purple and green, vessels burst and lumps raising up around the concave bone.

It’s his dad.

_Sometimes I want my dad to die._

_I wish I could help you._

Harry sits down on the floor, runs a shaking hand through his hair. He’d always dreamed of the day he’d receive the news that his father had died. He always thought he’d feel relief flow through him, unlocking the doors he’s kept shut and allowing him to finally live without the constant fear, the constant hatred burning in his gut. He never imagined it would be like this.

“What did you do, Louis?” Harry asks again.

Louis shakes his head, pulls the sheet out of the puddle of blood at the foot of the bath and lays it back over Harry’s father. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Harry echoes incredulously. “You don’t remember _killing_ —“

“No!” Louis shouts, standing up and shaking on wobbly legs.

“Jesus Christ, Louis,” Harry rasps, getting to his feet and running his hands down his pale face. “You…you really fucked up this time.”

“I can fix it,” Louis breathes. “I can fix this.” His eyes are crazed, made more wild by the crimson dying the thin skin around them.

Harry just stares at him as he moves wildly around the room, muttering to himself and twiddling his red fingers together. Louis has always been causing problems, doing things he shouldn’t, and Harry has always dutifully cleaned up after him. But this is different. It’s murder. Can he really help Louis now?

Suddenly, Louis stills and comes over to where Harry is standing. Serene.

And there’s this moment when Louis places a calm hand, slick with blood, to Harry’s cheek, smile reassuring and kind like it was the day that they first met, that Harry can’t help but think:

_Isn’t this what you wanted?_


	2. Four Years Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning of the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooooo it's finally done!! sorry if my posting dates are kinda erratic, school makes it hard to find the time to write, but chapter 1 is here at last! thank you so much to all my smols who have helped me along, especially ana who made a gorgeous moodboard and helped me make this chapter better :~)  
> follow me on tumblr @peachyzain
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: substance abuse, mentions of/allusions to abuse

“This is the worst part,” Niall declares, adjusting the clothespin he’s attached to his nose and poking his tongue out in distaste. “I swear I’m going to quit.”

Harry snorts and slides a blue latex glove over his hand with a pop. “You say that every time, you know.”

Niall sniffs. “I always mean it until I see the dogs again,” he mutters. “Pass me those wipes, would you?”

They’ve been working at Purrfect Pet for almost two years now—since they were fourteen—and somehow when the day for cleaning out the cages rolls around, it always falls on them. Harry doesn’t mind it now like he used to. Over time, he’s developed a flawless system. Take the dogs out to the kennel, move the cats to the nursery. Wipe each cage with a sanitary napkin, wipe that out with the rag he keeps tucked into one of his belt-loops. Lay out a fresh towel, set a treat down, and load the animals back up. Simple and easy. Like clockwork. It’s mundane, sure, but it’s not the most awful thing in the world.

There are worse things he could do, and at least he’s getting paid to do this.

While Niall hates cage day, Harry hates the days when his dad just decides “to stop by and bring lunch for the boys.” He sees his dad enough at home and painted behind the lids of his eyes when he shuts them. He doesn’t need to see him at work too.

On those days, when Mr. Styles shows up with brown paper bags in hand and too-wide smile in place, Harry mumbles something about not being very hungry, how he has a lot of work he needs to do, thanks for the lunch though, and shuffles off to the back room where Mr. Styles isn’t allowed to follow. Instead of the disappointed, concerned fatherly glow in his dad’s crisp green eyes, there’s a tightening of his jaw and a tightlipped, “alright, boy, see you at home.”

The first time Mr. Styles showed up with a little plastic container of fruit salad, Harry stumbled through the store without saying a word, head swimming and bile bubbling up, sour and dark, in his throat. He’d sat on the ground by the back door, head between his knees and breath filtering heavily through his nose.

Niall had followed him, round face etched with concern. Harry remembers thinking he had looked unusually pale in the sunlight, probably because he had just started bleaching his hair that summer.

When Niall had asked him what was wrong, pink sticky note from Mr. Styles clasped in his right hand and lunch in his left, Harry hadn’t even listened, just grabbed for the piece of paper with a shaking hand. He read it— _Was just sat at home with your mum thinking about my boy. Hope you enjoy the lunch, H. Can’t wait for your day off xx Dad_ —and immediately threw up, throat and nose burning with it.

Niall never asked again, never gave Harry another one of those sticky notes.

Now, Harry pushes away the memory, just like he has for the past sixteen years. He focuses on the strong smell of chemicals rather than his father’s voice that’s constantly ringing in his ears. He’s gotten very good at not thinking about it.

“Do you want to come over tomorrow?” Niall asks. His voice sounds nasally from the clip clamping his nostrils shut. “We got a basketball goal for the pool so Liam wants to play two on two.”

Harry frowns. “You know Zayn can’t swim.”

“It’s just in the shallow end,” Niall replies, tossing a dirty towel toward the laundry bin and missing. “He’ll just have to stand, no swimming involved.”

“You can drown in a teaspoon of water, you know.”

Niall rolls his eyes so harshly Harry half expects them to come popping out and skitter across the floor like marbles. “You always say that. Just—“

“I’ll ask him.”

Niall scratches his dimpled chin thoughtfully. “We should get him some water wings.”

Harry laughs, shoves Niall’s bony shoulder. “He would never wear those.”

“Well somebody should teach—“

The sound of the shop’s front door opening and a lilted voice calling out “hello?” cuts Niall off. He furrows his brow, goes to remove the clothespin from his nose, but Harry grabs his wrist to stop him.

“You always get to answer the door on cage day.”

Niall bites his lip nervously. “What if it’s your dad?” he murmurs.

Jaw tight, Harry looks away, drops Niall’s wrist and brushes a curl out of his eyes. “He’s out of town. If I thought there was even a _chance_ that it might be…” He trails off, feeling very stupid. “I’ll be right back.”

Harry peels the gloves off of his hands, drops them in the bin, and heads down the hall towards the front of the store. As he pushes open the door, even though he knows that it couldn’t logically be Mr. Styles, he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he’s not met with his father’s broad shoulders and cleanly pressed button down, but instead a faded Killers t-shirt over a slight frame.

“Hi,” Harry says, putting on his best smile as he pads up to the counter. “What can I help you with?”

The customer smiles, skin crinkling pleasantly around his clear blue eyes. “Hi there,” he says, heavy Yorkshire accent practically dripping from his thin pink lips. “I was beginning to think no one was here.”

“We’ve just been in the back doing maintenance,” Harry responds politely. “Can I help you with something?”

He nods, scratches his nose with a blunt fingernail. “I was actually wondering if you were still hiring. I saw a sign out front a few days ago, but it’s not there anymore…” He slows to a stop frowning, adjusts the fringe sweeping across his forehead. “Which probably means you’re not hiring anymore, are you?”

Harry hesitates, rolls his bottom lip between his thumb and finger. They’re not technically hiring anymore. Mr. Edmunds, Harry’s boss, had announced they’ve reached capacity with their applicant pool on Tuesday, but Harry remembers the last guy to turn in his application, remembers not liking him very much. He’d had greasy blonde hair that he parted down the middle, tucked behind his ears. Battered red Nikes and blue basketball shorts. Brown eyes dull and bloodshot and hoodie reeking of marijuana.

It wouldn’t be difficult to switch out their applications. He remembers distinctly which one was his—it has an artificial cheese thumbprint in the top right corner from where he’d passed it off to Harry, leaving behind the Dorito dust that still clung to his thick fingers. Mr. Edmunds is never around anyway. He wouldn’t even notice.

“We are actually,” Harry lies, voice chipper and reassuring. Believable. “I dunno who took the sign down, hadn’t even noticed it was gone until you mentioned it.” He pauses, grins—the one that Gemma always said is flirting—at the boy on the opposite side of the counter. “I’ll go grab an application for you really quick. Just wait right there.”

Relief washes over the boy’s face and he drums his fingers merrily on the counter. “Cool. Thank you so much.”

Harry nods, grabs the key off of the hook by Mr. Edmunds’ office and disappears quietly inside. Harry can hardly remember the last time his boss came to work for more than an hour twice a week. Not that he really has to. He entrusted Harry with his very own set of keys nearly a year ago—“You know you’re my best employee, Harvey.” “It’s Harry, sir.” “Is that not what I said?” “Erm—“ “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. Here’s your keys. I know you’ll be responsible with them.”—which was clearly a mistake, based on the fact that Harry is being particularly dishonest and irresponsible right now. Not to mention screwing over the greasy guy with Dorito stained fingers. Whatever. He doesn’t really feel bad about it.

Mr. Edmunds hasn’t changed anything about his office in probably thirty years. Maybe longer. While the rest of Purrfect Pet has had its fair share of renovations over the years, there’s still dingy brown shag carpet and chipped panel walls in the boxy office space. There’s a purple succulent by the dusty computer that Harry tends to every once in a while, sitting on the desk and growing so long that it’s spilling over the edge, curled up in the long carpet.

But the good thing about the office never changing is that everything is always in the exact sample place, so it takes Harry about two seconds to find the stack of applications haphazardly tucked into a manila folder. He plucks out the one with the cheese stain, catches sight of the name as he moves towards the shredder. Tyler Edmunds.

He frowns, slumps down in the chair and slides the paper back into the folder. Mr. Edmunds had said his nephew was coming by that week to drop off his application for appearances’ sake, so nobody could accuse him of nepotism if he applied just like everybody else.

Of course his nephew is _that_ guy.

Harry sighs, plucks out another application at random. He glances at the pink name written in neat cursive—sorry Bonnie Anderson—and drops it in the shredder. He’s sure Bonnie is probably lovely, definitely a better candidate for the job than Tyler, but he’s already told the boy waiting outside the door that they’re hiring, and he’s a man of his word. He can’t go back on it now, so he grabs a fresh application and heads out of the office.

Harry tucks the paper under his arm, turns around to lock the office door back. “Do you mind filling it out right now?” he asks, fumbling with the key. “My boss is eager to get some people hired so it’d probably be to your advantage to go ahead and get it done.”

“Yeah, absolutely. Haven’t got a pen on me though. Do you have one I could borrow?”

Harry returns the key to its hook and fishes a pen from the mug by the register. “As long as you promise not to steal it.”

“I promise to return your pen in its original condition.”

He laughs, turns around to present the boy with the Killers shirt a pen, starts to speak, but the words die in his throat, tongue suddenly heavy. The smile falls from his face and he can feel all of his color draining, can feel himself turning to porcelain. He’s on the edge, ready to fall and shatter.

“Dad,” he says, setting the pen and application down. His throat is so dry it feels like it might crack. “You…you’re supposed to be in Leeds. What are you doing here?”

Thin lips spreading over his pearly white teeth, Mr. Styles moves to stand by the boy with blue eyes, who’s slowly scribbling on the paper in front of him, carefully avoiding Harry and his finely dressed father. Mr. Styles glances at him, nostrils flaring briefly and curiosity flashing over his stony face, before turning his attention back to Harry. Always focused on Harry.

“I got back early,” Mr. Styles answers simply.

Harry swallows, twists the ring on his index finger. “You should go,” he tells him, fighting to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Mum probably wants to see you.”

“Mum can wait. I want to see my boy first.” Mr. Styles grins at him, reaches across the counter to still Harry’s fidgeting hands. Harry breathes out hotly through his nose. “When’s your break? I’ll take you out for lunch.” Panic and anger flaring in his stomach, Harry jerks his hands away like his father’s are made of acid. Mr. Style’s mouth twists sourly. “Boy—“

“You should go,” Harry repeats quietly, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. “We’re very busy.”

Mr. Styles laughs so harshly that Harry flinches. “Oh yeah, you look real fuckin’ busy, boy!” he shouts, voice edged with bitterness, gesturing wildly around the near empty shop. “I’m sick of your—“

“Actually, he is busy,” the boy interrupts, capping the pen and sliding his application back towards Harry.

Harry stares at him, confused and surprised, while Mr. Styles scowls. “Who the hell are you?” he demands, glaring down at the boy as he looms over him.

“Louis Tomlinson,” he responds pleasantly, sharp teeth glistening like swallowed daggers. He pushes the hair out of his eyes with a delicate hand, eyes darting swiftly to the name tag pinned neatly to Harry’s shirt, before continuing breezily. “I’m a new hire. Harold here is supposed to be giving me an orientation”—he glances at the watch on his wrist—“right now actually. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry blinks, dumbfounded. “Uh, yeah.” He nods a little more convincingly. “That’s right.”

Mr. Styles narrows his eyes, looks back and forth between the two of them. Harry hopes he can’t hear his heart pounding. If his father finds out this is a lie, he’ll repay Harry for it in an ugly way later.

“Fine,” he says finally.

“We’re mostly going to be in the back,” Harry murmurs. “It’s cage day. You should go home.”

Mr. Styles crosses his arms over his broad chest. “How long is this going to take? I can wait and give you a ride home. I know you hate the walk.”

Harry presses his nails so far into the skin of his palms he can feel blood welling up around them. “I can—“

“That won’t be necessary,” Louis says, meeting Mr. Styles’ dark gaze evenly, waving his hand dismissively at Harry. “I’m giving Harry a ride home.” Before Mr. Styles can protest, Louis adds, “A carpool is the least I can do. He did get me this job after all.”

Face twisted into a smile so fake it’s a grimace, Mr. Styles slaps his hand down on the counter. Harry jumps, swallows his fear. “Alright then,” he spits, forced smile unwavering. “I suppose I’ll see you at home, won’t I?”

Harry nods, finally uncurls his fingers. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t leave though, just watches them, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Go on then,” he says, jerking his head towards Louis. “Orient him.”

Harry blinks, feeling for a moment like a deer caught in the headlights. “Right then.” He locks eyes with Louis, regains his composure when the boy gives him a reassuring smile. “Follow me.”

Louis nods, gives Mr. Styles a salute with two fingers. “Lovely to meet you, sir.”

Mr. Styles doesn’t say anything, just watches silently, expression cold and blank, as Harry and Louis disappear behind the door. Only when they’re separated by the door locked firmly behind them does Harry allow himself to really breathe.

Harry clears his throat uncomfortably. “I, uh…thank you for…” He waves his hand, gesturing vaguely. “…for that.”

Louis slides his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “No problem.”

They’re quiet for a moment, each of them indulging in their nervous ticks. Harry fiddles with his rings, twitches his nose, ignores the way the shallow cuts in his palms are starting to crust over. Louis bites his chapped lips, tearing at the peeling skin with his pointed teeth.

It’s Louis who breaks the silence first. “Should I go?” he asks. “I don’t want to keep you from your job.”

Harry laughs, but it’s just a puff of air, has no substance. “No. He’ll be out there for a bit longer.” He hesitates, runs his fingers lightly over a small set of fading bruises on his left bicep. He doesn’t want to ask, probably shouldn’t ask, but he has to know. “Why did you do that?”

Louis doesn’t look surprised by the question, more like he was almost expecting Harry to ask. “I never knew my dad. Seems wrong to have someone have their dad be a part of their life only to…be a proper ass, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees quietly. “It does.”

“I’m not very good at biting me tongue,” he admits. “I probably get that from me mum.”

Harry laughs, real this time, and rubs his tired face with his hands. He forgot he’d hurt himself, but he can feel it, warm and a little sticky on his cheeks, can tell by the slight widening of Louis’ eyes that he’s seen it.

“He’s probably gone now,” Harry says, crossing his arms over his chest and hiding his palms from view. Pretends there’s no blood on his face as he looks Louis in the eye.

“You’re bleeding,” Louis murmurs. His voice is quiet, concerned and uncertain.

Harry flushes. He feels embarrassed, like a child who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t. “It’s nothing. You don’t need to stay. You’ve already helped me more than you should.”

Louis frowns. “I didn’t realize there’s a maximum to how much you can do for a person if they need it.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Lie,” Louis whispers. They both know it’s true. So Harry doesn’t pull away when Louis reaches out for his hands, turns them over to examine the divots Harry left in them. “You do this a lot?”

Harry shrugs, knows the scar tissue peppering his palms gives him away. “Sometimes.”

“You should wash these out. You don’t want to get an infection. Fingernails house all kinds of bacteria, you know.”

“I know.”

“Just making sure,” Louis replies easily, dropping Harry’s hands and tucking his own back into his pockets.

“Why do you even care what I do?” Harry asks, a little more sharply than necessary.

Louis blinks. “Somebody has to.”

“People do,” Harry snaps. “Plenty of people.”

“How many people actually _know_ what you do?”

This conversation is frustrating him, making him uneasy. His instincts tell him to drive his nails further into his palms, dig deeper, but he fights off the urge. “You don’t even know what I do.”

“I have a feeling I’ve got a pretty good idea.” Louis shrugs, runs a hand through his hair. “Look, if you don’t want to be friends, that’s fine, but I’m not going to pretend you’re okay or that I didn’t see what I saw. I can’t do that.”

Harry hesitates, stares at Louis, just waits for him to back down and sweep everything he’s seen under the rug for the sake of keeping his own life simple. Because he doesn’t know what to do with it. Just like everybody else. Because nobody knows what to do with it. He doesn’t resent any of his friends for doing that. It’s not their fault. It’s not their problem, not their cross to bear.

“You want to be my friend?” Harry repeats finally.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Louis bites his lip again. “You need someone who can understand you.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t need—“

“And I need someone who can understand me,” Louis cuts in. “This isn’t entirely selfless.”

“What makes you think I’m that person?”

Louis smiles sadly at him. Suddenly it dawns on Harry how tired he looks. Dark purple blooms under his dimly lit eyes. Uncertainty etched into his thin lips as they stretch to reveal his porcelain teeth. So starkly different from the boy who confidently faced Mr. Styles not fifteen minutes ago.

“Somebody’s got to be,” he answers quietly. “Why not you?”

He’s not entirely sure he can be that person, but he thinks, maybe, Louis can be that person for him. Harry has been trying for as long as he can remember to make it all go away, to learn how to fix his problems on his own.

He’s never been able to, but maybe Louis can. He’d like to find out.

When he smiles at Louis, dimples carving into his marble face, he feels more real than he has in years, fingers just barely grasping at a golden horizon, slipping off of the soft satin of a possibility he’s never felt before. This could work.

~~~

Louis drives a classic Mercedes 230E. Cream colored exterior, cracked maroon leather interior, and only an AM radio. A hairline crack in the windshield and a leaf dangling from the rearview mirror that smells like warmth and cinnamon. It’s not at all what Harry expected when Louis offered him a ride home, but it’s fitting nonetheless.

“Oi,” Louis calls, rolling down his window as Niall walks through the parking lot, guiding the same rusted red bike he’s been riding since they were eleven. “You need a ride, mate?”

Niall grins, blonde hair glowing pink in the cool evening sun, and pats his bike seat. “No thanks, mate. I’ve got Old Faithful here, so I’m good.”

Louis flashes Niall a thumbs up. “Alright, lad. See you around.”

“You coming over tomorrow, Harry?” Niall asks, swinging one leg over Old Faithful. “Me mum is going to make chocolate chip cookies.”

Harry nods, realizes Niall probably can’t see him for the sun shining in his eyes, and shouts, “Yeah, I’ll be there!"

“Don’t forget to bring Zayn,” Niall reminds him. “We need him for the tournament.”

“I know. We’ll be there.”

Niall smiles, face glowing like the sun setting over the edge of the parking lot. “Winner gets to have dinner with your mum!” he shouts, immediately erupting into a fit of laughter as he begins riding down the uneven sidewalk. As he reaches the crest of the hill, he glances over his shoulder, gives them a final wave goodbye before he disappears over the edge.

Harry watches Louis’ nimble fingers slide the key into the ignition, bites the inside of his cheek as he considers. “You know,” he says carefully, keeping his eyes trained on the crack in the windshield as they slowly coast through the parking lot, “I can get you the job.”

Louis glances over at him. “Right or left?”

“Right.” Harry reaches up to poke the air freshener hanging from the mirror, watches it spin lazily. “If you want the job, I mean.”

The sun filtering through the windows, blocked every now and then by the shade of a tree, casts dappled shadows on the sharp cuts of Louis’ cheekbones as he keeps his eyes on the empty street stretching out in front of them. “You don’t need to do that,” he says quietly. “You don’t need to feel any obligation towards me.” They come rolling to a stop. Louis scratches the bridge of his nose. “Which way?”

“Straight.” Harry looks over at him as the car chugs through the stop, wonders how he can look so soft and dangerous all at once. “It’s not out of obligation.”

“Would you have gotten me the job if I hadn’t helped you?”

“I kind of already did,” Harry admits. “Before my dad even showed up.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“We weren’t still taking applications when you asked,” Harry answers. “I shredded someone else’s so you could fill yours out.” Harry taps the window. “This is mine on the right. The white one.”

As the car comes to a stop at the edge of Harry’s lawn, Louis turns to face Harry, puts it in park. “Why did you do that?”

“Honestly?”

Louis nods. “Honestly.”

Harry reaches out, picks a piece of fuzz off of Louis’ hair. It’s soft to the touch, feels like it’ll melt away on the warm tips of his fingers like candy floss. “I thought about this other boy who applied. He was greasy and smelled like weed and had pimples on his chin.”

He lets out a small puff of laughter. “What has that got to do with me?” Louis asks, brow pinching slightly in confusion.

“I haven’t finished,” Harry sniffs, fluffing out his curls. “I’d rather work with you than him.”

“Why’s that?”

Harry shrugs. “You’re cuter.”

A grin splits Louis’ face. “You’ve—“

Louis is cut off by an angry shout from Mr. Styles as he marches down the front steps of the porch and across the yard. He’s drunk, steps uneven and heavy and cheeks ruddy. Louis’ eyes darken, seem to suck up all of the color draining from Harry’s face.

“Boy!” Mr. Styles roars, stopping just a few steps from Louis’ car, swaying where he stands.

Harry swallows, slides his nails into the grooves from earlier that day. “I should go.”

Louis grips Harry’s wrist with his delicate fingers. “Harry.”

“I need to go.”

“Give me your phone,” Louis instructs, keeping Harry’s wrist locked in his grasp, eyes focused on him even as Mr. Styles moves closer, swearing violently. “Now.”

With a trembling hand, Harry reaches into his pocket, places his phone in Louis’ hand. “What are you doing?”

“Putting my number in,” Louis responds, tapping at the screen. He doesn’t even flinch when Mr. Styles begins pounding in the window. Harry does. He feels the glass rattling in his skull.

“Come on, boy!” Mr. Styles spits, thick hand lying flat on the window as he shouts.

Face pulling into a frown, Louis places Harry’s phone back into his hand and rolls down his window, turning to look at Mr. Styles. “Have you quite finished, sir?” he asks, sounding almost bored, nose pinched in irritation. “You’re going to break my window.”

Harry licks his lips nervously. “Louis.”

“What? He is.”

Harry breathes hotly through his nose. His father is staring at Louis darkly, tar boiling in his eyes. Harry recognizes it and it makes him feel sick. It’s the same one he gave Harry when he accidentally slammed his bedroom door, when he tracked muddy footprints on the white carpet, when he spilled grape juice on Gemma’s church dress. The look stings like leather cracking against his skin, sounds like bone breaking, feels like cigarette burns.

“Please be careful,” Harry murmurs.

Louis smiles warmly at Harry. “Don’t worry about me. He can’t hurt me.” He wiggles his eyebrows, eyes glittering mischievously. “Nobody’s more dangerous than I am.”

“I’m going to count to ten,” Mr. Styles says, voice low and steely, “and if you’re not off my street by the time I get to ten, I’m going to knock your teeth out of your skull.”

“A bit rude,” Louis mutters.

Heart hammering in his chest, shaking his ribs, Harry puts his phone back in his pocket and climbs out of the car. By the time he’s standing on the front lawn behind his father, Mr. Styles is already on three, and Louis hasn’t even pretended he’s about to leave. He’s just sitting there, staring at Mr. Styles, unimpressed. Defiant. Bored.

When his father gets to ten, Harry’s blood pressure spikes. He cringes, preparing himself for the sound of bone colliding with bone, of Louis’ teeth clattering to the pavement. But it doesn’t come.

“We’ve reached ten, sir,” Louis comments, contempt dripping off of his words. “Isn’t it time to ‘knock my teeth out of my skull’?”

Harry watches Mr. Styles’ jaw tighten, his fingers curl into a fist. “Get out."

“You said you were going to hit me.”

“Louis,” Harry whispers.

Louis holds a hand up, signaling Harry to be quiet. “You said you were going to hit me,” he repeats, clipping his syllables neatly. “So hit me.”

“Leave,” Mr. Styles orders.

The tension reminds Harry of stretching a rubber band. He can see the white lines forming as it strains under pressure, tries desperately to keep it together.

“Hit me.”

The rubber band snaps.

Mr. Styles rears back, face scarlet with anger, heavy fist flying towards Louis. Harry’s chest tightens as he watches, but Louis is just grinning. He almost looks crazy. Maybe he is.

Louis holds up a hand, stops Mr. Styles’ fist. As it claps into the hollow flesh of Louis’ open palm, Louis swings open the car door, slams the heavy metal into Mr. Styles’ knees with a metallic boom, top frame of the door catching him in the forehead. Harry’s father stumbles backward, falls to the ground, dazed, blood trickling out of a cut on his forehead.

Harry stares, wide-eyed. “Holy shit.” He swallows, looks over at Louis as he frowns at the new dents in the cream door. “How did you…have you done that before?”

Louis sighs, shakes his head at the damage. “Can’t say I have,” he admits, glancing over his shoulder at Harry. “It was fun though, wasn’t it?” Harry just stares, at a loss for words. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, trying not to look visibly satisfied as he watches his father wipe the blood from his forehead with the cuff of his pinstriped sleeve. “He’s going to kill you if he sees you again.”

Louis snorts. “I’m sure.”

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“Believe it, kid,” Louis mutters, strolling over to where Mr. Styles is standing. He places his Van on the center of Mr. Styles’ chest, rubs dirt into his fine work shirt, and frowns down at him. “Don’t threaten me again, sir.”

Mr. Styles grunts in response, shoves Louis’ foot away, moves to struggle back to his feet. Harry wants to ask Louis how he got to be so confident. Or why he’s even doing any of this. Louis doesn’t even know his last name, and yet he has already done more for Harry than anyone before. Not that he would want anyone else to challenge his father like this. Nobody else would be brave. Or maybe he’s just stupid. Maybe crazy.

“I’ll see you around then, Harry,” Louis tells him, settling back into the driver’s seat and closing the door, running his free hand through his hair. “Text me if you ever need me, alright?”

Harry nods, still trying to process everything that just happened. “Okay.”

With one last friendly smile, as if he hadn’t just knocked Mr. Styles’ on his ass, Louis cranks up his car and putters off down the street, hand laying out of the window, stretching to settle into the newly formed dents of the door. Harry moves to stand by his father, stares down at him silently. He’s given up trying to get up, instead resorting to lying on the lawn, ripping up chunks of grass and dirt by the handful, grunting furiously.

“Do you need help up, Dad?” Harry asks nervously.

Mr. Styles laughs harshly. “Don’t pretend you’re going to be of any use,” he spits. “Go get your mum.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t bring that little fucking prick back here again.”

~~~

The nights are always the worst. Ever since Harry was little, since he can remember. Tonight is no exception.

He’s locked his door, braced it by propping a chair up under the knob, but he can still hear all of the dreadful noises he’s become accustomed to over the years. His father’s enraged shouting. The clatter of a dish as it’s smashed to the hardwood floor, exploding into a dozen ceramic pieces. His mum’s soft apologies, her knees banging to the ground as his father pushes her down, forces her to clean up the mess he’s made. Water running as she rinses the blood from the fresh cuts on her hands. Muffled sobbing once he finally stomps off down the hall and she’s finally alone.

Mr. Styles only leaves to come bang on Harry’s door, shaking the splintering wood. His demands are on constant loop at the back of Harry’s head. He could recite them from memory if he had to. They’re soft, gentle, only threatening because of the way his bedroom door quakes under the weight of his fist, only because Harry knows what they really mean.

It used to be easier when Gemma was here. She made him feel better. She protected him. Gemma always had a knack for stopping Mr. Styles’ angry hands with a sugary sweet smile or, when those weren’t enough, pleading sobs. But she could never stop his wandering hands.

And she’s not around to stop him anymore. Harry is alone.

Now alcohol is Gemma running her fingers through his hair while he lays in bed. Now his mother’s sleeping pills sing quiet lullabies in his ear. It’s not better this way, but it’s easier. At least he doesn’t have to worry about Gemma anymore.

He leans back into his pillow, winces as he downs another gulp of bitter alcohol, feels it burn the walls of his esophagus. It still feels better than his father’s touch on his skin.

Harry sets the bottle of liquor on his bedside table before putting on his headphones, drowning out the sounds of Mr. Styles murmuring to him on the other side of the door. He’ll tire out soon, stumble off to bed in his drunken stupor, and until then Harry will listen to Stevie Nicks singing about Rhiannon and never going back again. He can’t sleep until his father leaves. Not anymore.

He’s about to swallow a handful of his mother’s pills, just enough to take him somewhere else for a while, when he remembers what Louis told him earlier.

_Text me if you ever need me, alright?_

He swipes his phone open, types “Louis” into his messages and clicks his name when it pops up followed by the peach emoji and the one that wears the sunglasses. He starts typing, but stops himself, suddenly feeling hesitant and unsure. Louis probably didn’t mean that. He probably just said it. It was an empty offer, meant nothing. He shakes his head. Whatever. Fuck it.

_Hi. It’s Harry._

A response comes through not a minute later. He’s surprised Louis is even up, feels relief wash over him, cool to the touch.

_Hey Harry . You alright ?_

Harry snorts at his odd punctuation, just tipsy enough to get straight to the point. _I need to get out of here._

_Want me to pick you up ?_

_Yes._

_Be there in fifteen ._

Harry climbs out of bed, throws on a pair of joggers, and sits down at the rickety desk under his window, watches the moonlit street. Before, right after the last time he saw Gemma, Harry used to climb out this window and run across the street to Zayn’s house. Mrs. Malik, paranoid and irrationally fearful of the house bursting into flames and her son, the only child with a second story bedroom, perishing among the fire, equipped Zayn with an emergency rope ladder. He kept it dangling from his window every night for Harry. Until one night last year Harry came padding across the Malik’s yard to find the ladder gone.

When he’d asked Zayn about it at school the next day, he’d said that his mum found out, said it was dangerous to have that out every night. What if a murderer decided to climb in? So she had him switch bedrooms with Safaa, who lived on the first floor and had a bedroom window that stubbornly refused to open.

Harry didn’t blame Zayn for it, wasn’t angry with him. It wasn’t his fault his mum was a nutter, wasn’t his fault he couldn’t save Harry. So Harry turned to alcohol and whatever pills his mum had in the cabinet. Hopefully Louis can offer him something better.

His phone buzzes just as a cream colored car rolls up to the edge of his lawn. He can see Louis, bathed in the fluorescent lighting of a street lamp, wearing a maroon hooded jacket with the strings tied together in a loose bow.

Harry heaves open his window, sheds his headphones and sets them on his desk, checks his phone. _Bring money . I know a place ._ Harry snorts and shoves a wrinkled note into his pocket before climbing out of the window.

The air is balmy, sticks to his skin. He shuts the window behind him, careful to leave a crack for his return. He loves how quiet his neighborhood is this early in the morning. It’s so soothing, such a stark contrast to the violence of his home. Louis’ car is just as quiet save for the gentle drumming of his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Hey, curly,” Louis greets, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand as he looks over at Harry. “You brought money, yeah?”

Harry nods, shuts the door and buckles himself in. “Yeah. Where are we going?”

Louis smiles. “You’ll see.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one.”

“How do you know?” Harry asks, rolling his window down. “You don’t even know me.”

Louis snorts as they come to a stop, sit at the intersection bathed in red light. “You know, you keep saying that,” he says, training his clean blue eyes on Harry, “but how many people really know anything about you?”

“I have friends, Louis,” Harry mutters.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“What _are_ you asking?” Harry snaps, irritated.

“Does anyone really _know_ you, Harry?”

Harry snags his bottom lip between his teeth. He doesn’t want to answer. “The light’s green,” he comments, looking down at his pale skin glowing in the dark.

The car doesn’t move. “Answer my question.”

“The light’s green, Louis.”

“Nobody is out here. It doesn’t matter.” Louis puts the car in park, turns to face Harry fully. “Answer my question, and we’ll go.”

“Don’t we have to be somewhere?”

“It’s open 24 hours. We have all night.”

Harry groans, probably dramatically, leans his head against the door frame and watches his hair blow gently in the breeze in the mirror. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s the only way to make you stop shutting me out.”

“I met you less then twelve hours ago,” Harry replies, frowning, tapping his fingers against the side of the car. “I think I’ve got the right to shut you out.”

He can just barely see Louis shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, you do,” he agrees. “You’ve got the right to shut everyone out, which I’m sure you do anyway, but you shouldn’t. It’s not good for you.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek, looks back at him. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t know,” Louis admits.

Harry stares at him, observes his face silently. He wonders what he looks like when he bleeds, what he looks like when he’s scared. When purple and green bruises bloom on his golden skin. When tears well in his eyes and roll down his sharper than glass cheeks. How can he be so honest and never appear vulnerable?

“Why do you care?” Harry repeats more quietly than before.

Louis hesitates for a moment, pulls the dead skin from his lips with the edges of his teeth. “Nobody stopped me.”

Harry blinks. “Stopped you from what?”

“Being alone.”

“You don’t like to be alone?”

Louis laughs, light and a little bitter. It tastes like cough syrup. “Nobody does.”

“I do,” Harry murmurs.

“Lie.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe.”

“I would’ve wanted someone to...” He trails off, brow furrowed as he thinks, leaning further back into his seat and staring up at the stoplight. “I would’ve wanted someone to see me.”

“What do you mean?”

The light switches to yellow. “Do you ever feel like people see that…something isn’t right, you know, with your life…or whatever…but they don’t do anything about it? They just pretend it’s not there.” Harry doesn’t say anything. “Because that’s easier. It’s like you become invisible to everyone when no one acknowledges your suffering. Because we’re all just an extension of our problems.” He looks back over at Harry, and he doesn’t look embarrassed or sad, just thoughtful, slightly frustrated with his words. “Am I making sense?”

Harry just barely nods. “Yeah. You are.”

Louis brushes his fringe out of his eyes. “Nobody should feel alone around the people who are supposed to know them best.” He pauses before adding, “I’m sorry I’m invasive. Or I say too much. But I think—“

“You were right,” Harry blurts out, surprising himself. “About no one really knowing me. I mean, my friends _know_ me, but…they only know what they want to know.”

Louis puts the car back in drive.

~~~

The place Louis knows is a diner off of the highway. Harry watches him as they walk up to the entrance, pays attention to the way the neon lights of the sign reflect off of his bones, make him shine pink and blue. He looks eerie in this lighting. Hollow. Alive. He only looks away when Louis pulls the door open and catches him watching.

It smells like vanilla and syrup inside. The music playing over the speakers is something old and lively and the petite old lady standing behind the counter, back turned to the door, hums under her breath as a tall man with a sleeve of tattoos bellows out orders.

“Evening, Evelyn,” Louis greets, climbing onto one of the barstools and patting the one next to him for Harry to join him.

The old lady turns around, warm smile in place, as Harry settles down next to him. “It’s morning, dear,” she corrects politely. Her gaze flickers over to Harry, slightly curious and maybe a little confused “Who have you brought with you?”

Louis claps a hand to Harry’s shoulder. “This is Harry. You can probably expect to see him a lot from now on.”

“Oh, is that so?” Evelyn asks.

Harry forces a smile, nods lightly. “Yeah, that’s probably right.”

She places a frail hand on Harry’s, pats it gently. “We’ll be happy to have you.” She leans forward and whispers, “Between you and me, I never thought I’d live to see the day where Louis brought someone with him.”

Louis huffs indignantly. “Evelyn, I can hear you.” She shrugs, coy smile still in place, and shuffles over to a stack of clean white mugs. “And I’ll have you know I’ve only been coming here for two weeks. I’ve got loads of friends now. I’m bringing a whole army next time, actually.”

Evelyn shakes her head as she comes back over, two mugs of tea in hand. One is light and creamy, milk already poured. The other is blooming darker and darker as it steeps in the water. She passes the first to Louis, sets the second down carefully in front of Harry. “How do you take it, love?” she asks him.

“Sugar and milk, please.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “Sugar?” he echoes, trying to slap the packets out of Evelyn’s hands to no avail. “You’ll ruin your drink that way, mate.”

Harry snorts, rips three open and dumps them in. “You know what you are?”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Feeling mischievous and still a little tipsy, Harry leans forward, holds up a hand so nobody can read his lips and puts them so close to Louis’ ear they brush the lobe. “A pussy.”

When he pulls back, it’s the first time he sees Louis look flustered. The first time he sees him blush. Harry likes him better like this almost. He looks like a rose. He wants to reach out and touch him, clasp onto the moment and see if he’s real, because so far he’s seemed too good to be true, the halo of gold glowing around his head and a darkness deeper than the depths of hell behind his eyes. He saved Harry. He could save him again. Harry wants to hold onto this feeling, this idea. That maybe he’s not alone and Louis is secretly just as vulnerable and hurting as he is.

Louis shakes his head, twirls a spoon around in his tea. “Wildly inappropriate of you, Curly.” He waves to Evelyn, calls, “We’ll both take my usual, love!”

“You don’t even know my last name, you know,” Harry points out, pouring a splash of milk into his mug.

“I know.”

“Well don’t you want to know?”

Louis shrugs, blows gently on his tea before taking a sip. “Doesn’t make much of a difference, does it?”

Harry frowns. “Friends should know each other’s last names, I think.” He runs a hand through his hair, scratches the tip of his ear. “Plus I know _your_ last name, Louis Tomlinson.”

“Well tell me then.”

“You don’t even care to know,” Harry sniffs, stirring his tea.

Louis sets his mug down on the counter. He turns to face Harry, suddenly looking very serious. “Harry, if I don’t find out right this second, I won’t make it to the morning. I’ll die right here. In this diner. In front of Evelyn and everybody. Is that what you want?”

Harry bites his grin. “No.”

“So tell me.”

“Styles.”

“Harry Styles,” Louis says slowly. He taps his spoon against the rim of the mug, metallic and ceramic pinging against each other, echoing through the diner as he thinks. “Almost sounds fake, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well of course you don’t, it’s your name.”

Harry takes a sip of his tea, contemplates as the warm liquid rushes through his body, fills his bones and colors his skin. “Why do you come here so often?” he asks finally, drawing warmth from the mug with his hands.

“I don’t sleep a lot,” Louis answers easily.

“Why not?”

The bell at the food counter dings shrilly. “I don’t know. Insomnia, I suppose.”

It doesn’t feel like the truth, and Harry is just close enough to the edge of being drunk to push it. It doesn’t feel right to hear words that mean nothing fall from Louis’ tongue. Everything he says seems so charged, electric. He can feel it in the air, buzzing on the edge of his skin. He has to fix it, make it feel right again. “Why are you lying?”

A shadow eclipses Louis’ face. Harry can almost see him retreating back into it, putting up defenses he didn’t even know existed. “We just met,” he replies, voice edged with irritation. “I don’t have to tell you everything about my life. Would you like my blood type as well? Maybe my father’s address? Because I don’t have the answer to either of those questions.”

Harry blinks, almost surprised by the retaliation even though he should’ve expected as much. “You know about my dad,” he points out quietly.

“Not by your choice,” Louis mutters.

Harry hums in consideration, taps his spoon against his teeth. There’s something gnawing away at him, asking for more, more, more. He needs to know Louis. He needs to know what’s hiding underneath his bronze skin, his bruised eyes. How does he change color so quickly? Every time Harry has seen him interact with someone he’s a different person, an entirely different someone. He’s never been so drawn in, so fascinated. Never had such a desire to just _know._

“Do you really have a lot of friends like you told Evelyn?”

Louis pinches his brow as he frowns. “What’s with the interrogation?”

“You haven’t stopped interrogating me since we met.”

He calms down again, goes back to pastel and the soft light of dawn. “Fair,” Louis sniffs. He dips his finger in his tea, pops it into his mouth and sucks the liquid from his skin. “You’re very intuitive then, aren’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You wouldn’t ask if you believed I had a lot of friends.”

Harry looks away, focuses on the flickering of blue light on the white tile wall as the O on the Open sign blinks and fades, sputtering back and forth between life and death. “I guess that’s true.”

“The answer is no,” Louis continues, “I don’t.”

They stay silent for a moment. That answer feels honest, doesn’t rub Harry the wrong way, doesn’t seem to leave anything left unsaid. He can feel the static in the air again, feels his skin prickling and humming under the weight of it. Content.

“Do you want to come to Niall’s tomorrow?” He’s not sure why he asks, but it comes out before he can even really consider it. He just knows he wants Louis to be there. Harry wants to be Louis’ friend.

Louis blinks, clearly surprised. “What?”

“Zayn can’t swim,” Harry says, “and Niall wants to play basketball at his pool. You can be on my team.”

“You’re sure that’d be alright?”

“Totally.”

“Alright then,” Louis responds after a moment of deliberation. “I’ll come.”

Harry smiles and it’s not the one Gemma told him looks best on him, the one that could “charm the pants off of anyone.” It’s the real one that feels a little nervous, makes his dimples pool lightly on his cheeks. And it feels good. It feels solid, real, tangible in a way that doesn’t hurt like his friends exchanging fearful looks when he shows up with a new bruise that he tries to hide or Mr. Styles’ gaze raking over his flesh.

It’s the beginning of the end.


	3. your sickening desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY THIS IS SO LATE HOLY SHIT school has been kicking my ass!!! im also sorry its so short, but all of the chapters of this nature will be. also finals are coming up soon so ill be done soon and have more time to work on everything, thank u guys for being so patient w me i love u all!!
> 
> !!!!!!TRIGGER WARNING!!!!!!! this chapter is from the pov of the murderer, so it describes the actual murder in a lot of detail, if this kind of depiction of violence and blood is triggering to you, PLEASE skip this chapter. I'll explain you miss at the end notes

“You know, things didn’t have to be this way,” he says, running a slender finger across the blade of the glistening knife in his hand. “This is entirely your fault.”

He glares down at the man lying unconscious in the bath. The left temple is bashed in, brow bone shattered and eye drooping. Purple and maroon. It’s disgusting. Ugly. Fitting.

He did a great job with it. The ancient brass lamp from the living room made for an excellent weapon. He’d never been a fan of it anyway, thought it was tacky and didn’t fit the room.

It was for the best, really.

He frowns down at the body, debating where to start. He’s been waiting for this moment for a long time. A very long time.

Too long.

It has to be perfect.

How many times has he dreamed of this moment? The way it would look, the way it would feel…life slipping through the gaps of his fingers. He had always hoped that he’d be able to see it, the light fading from those green eyes and the burst of fear that prefaced it, the realization that he was going to die by the hands of someone he trusted. That he was going to die like this.

This works too though. It was the only way to get it done without causing himself any harm. Self preservation and all that.

A smile plays across his lips and his hand trembles with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Suppose we should start with something light, something easy,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the cool blade for good measure. “Should probably kill you before we get to the good stuff, don’t you think?” The body, of course, says nothing. So silent for a change. He smirks anyway, pretends he’d said yes. “I’m glad we see eye to eye for once.”

He stares down at Mr. Styles, considers thoughtfully. What would be the most effective? What would bring him the most joy? He has to see it, has to know that the life oozing from the body before him is really gone, that he’s the one who made it leave.

Above all, Mr. Styles’ death has to be meaningful. He doesn’t just want to feel his pulse sputtering to a stop, he wants to know it’s just as evil as anything he ever did to Harry. Simply killing him is not enough.

It’s when he hears Mr. Styles’ acidic, bellowing words echoing though his head that it dawns on him.

_I’m going to knock the teeth out of your skull._

_Are you a faggot, boy?_

_If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you with my own hands. Don’t think I won’t._

He slashes the blade of the knife across Mr. Styles’ thick throat, feels warm blood splatter across his skin like rubies. A laugh bubbles up in the back of his throat as he runs his slender fingers under his eyes, smears the viscous liquid across the thin skin and watches scarlet flowing out of the gash he’s made. Pleasure sparks in his chest when he slides open Mr. Styles’ eyes to find nothing there. Gone is the watchful, malicious glow, replaced by a dull green nothingness. It’s so much better than he could’ve dreamed.

But it’s not enough.

The ragged flesh splitting his pale throat. The deep red soaking the clean pressed collar of his pastel shirt. The acrid metallic clinging to the air, sticking heavily to the hollows of his nostrils and the tip of his tongue. None of it is enough.

He needs more.

Adrenaline shakes his hands, sets every nerve ending and synapse in his body ablaze. He needs to see more blood, wants to swim in red, feel it cover his skin, soak through every pore. He wants it to hurt. Even though Mr. Styles won’t feel it, he will. He’s always felt too much, always felt it all.

He rears his arm back, drives the knife into the soft flesh of Mr. Styles’ stomach. Blood blooms from the wound as he rips his knife away again. It’s beautiful, reminds him of a rose.

“You haven’t suffered enough,” he murmurs, running a finger across the skin, feels the slick blood sliding into the grooves of his fingertip. He wishes he had been able to hurt him as much as he’d hurt Harry. “That one was for all the broken bones.”

He stabs him again. For all of the sickly green bruises he left.

Again. For all of the lunches he brought to the store.

Again. For the silence he bought from anyone who suspected something.

Again and again and again. For Harry’s mum. For Gemma. For all of the things Harry never told anyone, the things that only exist in the past and in the always present pain and fear behind Harry’s eyes. Until his hands are slick with blood, the knife dyed crimson, seeming to glow under the bathroom’s fluorescent light.

He pauses, stares at the body. His anger is ebbing away now, being drained like the blood from Mr. Styles’ body. It’s odd to see him so still, silent. He’s become so used to his thick fists flying through the air and his ruddy face ripped open as he spits black tar from his angry mouth. This is a welcome change.

There’s a fair amount of standing blood in the tub now. That’s going to be a pain to clean up later, but he’s not worried about that now.

All he can feel right now is an unbearable itch to the knife into Mr. Styles’ flesh again. His skin is crawling with it. So he does. Right in the middle of his chest. A smile splits his face and he drops the knife on the floor, feels cool relief wash over him. It feels like holy water.

He gets to his feet, spits on Mr. Styles, feels a burst of satisfaction when it lands on his ghostly cheek. “That one was for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone who skipped this chapter: mr. styles is dead (no surprise there!)
> 
> thank u all for reading!!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> i hope everyone liked it!!!
> 
> follow me on tumblr @ peachyzain
> 
> go check out endofthedayisaqueerlovesong on tumblr, bc shes making some awesome moodboards for each chapter! and petitezain because she made me an amazing trailer and i love her so much
> 
> thank you to ana, kayla, kayla2, ellie, alaina, raven, molly and everybody else who has been so hype and cool abt everything i lob u all <3


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